Garrett’s intensity, overlaid on Öhman’s debt to Garrett and worship of Garrett, had converted the Swede into a dependable ally, if one were needed. But now, Garrett did not need an ally. He had looked forward to this night’s truth session with Farelli. Once Farelli realized that Garrett had his number, once Farelli understood that Garrett was on to his manipulations, the Italian would cease and desist. He would not dare to continue as he had. Then, and only then, would Garrett be free, at last, to receive the full credit for discovery that was rightfully his own.
He realized that he had been lost in thought, and that Farelli was staring at him strangely. ‘Is anything wrong with you, Dr. Garrett?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You seem-somewhere else. I had been asking you what mysterious matter brought us out here in the night to get pneumonia.’
‘I’ll tell you what-I’ll tell you what-’ Garrett’s reserve had burst, and he was shivering. ‘I brought you here to say what I think of your getting half of my money!’
At first Farelli’s leonine head shook with lack of comprehension. His tone of voice was incredulous. ‘Do I understand your English, Dr. Garrett? Do you say I am receiving half of your money?’
‘For the Nobel Prize, yes, yes, that’s what I’m saying. I should have got $50,300 instead of $25,150. You don’t deserve the other half. You never have, and you know it. I made the discovery first, by myself, but you took the credit, you took most of it, like Cook and Peary-you’re Cook-you’re a pretender.’
Farelli’s jaw was agape. ‘Dr. Garrett, I do not believe my ears. You are joking with me, of course. It is a joke.’
‘It’s not a joke. Don’t give me any of that clever pretence. You can hoodwink the Nobel Committee, and the press, and Sue Wiley, and Öhman, and half the world. But some of us know the truth. We’re on to you.’
‘On to what? What are you on to? Your crazy words make my head swim.’
‘You know what I mean. You want me to spell it out? I know a good deal about psychology, not just pathology but psychology, and I know what makes a pretender like you tick. History’s full of impostors and frauds. I’ve read about them all, and on every page I see you-I see you in Psalmanazar, and Tichborne, and the so-called Dr. Graham with his Temple of Health and celestial bed, and Colonel Ghadiali, and all the medical quacks. You used my findings, my years of labour, you used my papers, and you had spies in my laboratories-’
Farelli’s dark face had hardened. ‘Che faccia tosta!’ he growled. ‘Dr. Garrett, if I did not believe you were either drunk or paranoiac, I would slap your face.’
‘Go ahead, try it, try it, try it,’ Garrett chanted, like an inciting boy roughneck who wanted to be struck so that he might have a cause. ‘I’ve watched you here, Farelli. Öhman and I have watched you, the greatest operator of all time. You’ve got the wool over their eyes, all right, you sure have. Taking over our press conference, trying to blot me out. And the Royal Banquet, trying to make me ridiculous in front of the others. And now-now-pretending you want to help Öhman-using him so you can get a lousy, cheap story from that Wiley girl.’
Garrett reeled with the excitement of his temper and the alcohol high in his throat.
‘You couldn’t steal the whole prize, the whole credit,’ he went on in a shriek, ‘so you’re trying to do it now. But I know you’re a phony, and others are beginning to know, and you keep it up, and you’re asking for trouble. Yes, trouble! You’re a phony, goddamn you-’
Farelli’s big face was livid. ‘Shut up, you stupid man. Si calmi. Make yourself sober, and maybe I will let you apologize someday.’
He turned to leave, but Garrett was not letting him have the last word, not tonight, not this exulting night that was Garrett’s night and his hour of truth.
Garrett reached out, almost falling, clutching Farelli’s arm, and pulling him around.
‘You’re a phony, a rotten Dago phony!’ he shouted.
Farelli slammed at Garrett’s hand, knocking it free of his arm. ‘Do not touch me, you sick, crazy man! Go away-imbecille-pazzo!’
It was this, nothing else but this, that goaded and incensed Garrett beyond all final restraint. Dr. Keller would have understood. The group therapy patients would have understood. Garrett departed from himself and his senses. With all frustration and fury unleashed, he swung his fist at Farelli. The blow landed high on the Italian’s shoulder and skated off. It was less the impact of the blow than the surprise of it that staggered Farelli, and sent him reeling backwards a few steps.
‘I’ll show you!’ Garrett was shouting, choking.
Blindly, he charged at the Italian, swinging both arms clumsily, like all middle-aged, sedentary men who become violent. But Farelli had his balance now and control of his temper. Quick of foot, he stepped aside, and as one of Garrett’s fists missed him entirely and the other glanced off his ribs, Farelli rammed his beefy right hand wrist-deep into his attacker’s stomach. Aggression and oxygen went out of Garrett. He doubled in two, and then as he slowly folded like a jack-knife, Farelli catapulted a hooking left to the exposed jaw. The sound of knuckles on flesh was short and sharp, like a handclap, and Garrett, head jerking, fingers holding his belly, went over backwards as if axed.
He sat on the gravel path, whimpering, spitting blood and alcohol and, like a sand sucker, chewed for air.
He looked up, eyes crossed and maniacal, and suddenly, from some reservoir of strength, he lifted himself, groaning, to one knee, and then, throwing himself at Farelli’s legs, tried to pull the other down. Farelli kicked loose, with a curse in Italian, but when he attempted to retreat, Garrett was upright on his feet again, wobbling. Garrett threw himself upon the larger man, bear-hugging him, attempting to wrestle him to the turf, attempting to destroy all that stood between himself and self-respect. Farelli fought to tear Garrett’s clawing hands from his shoulders, and in this way, into the frosted loam of the garden, they grappled and cursed.
It was then that Andrew Craig came on the run, having watched the altercation from the terrace. Craig pushed between them, and because he had will and no anger, his authority was felt, and Garrett released Farelli, and staggered backwards, panting, lips working, but speechless.
‘Are you insane? Are both of you insane?’ Craig demanded.
‘He insulted me,’ said Farelli with bedraggled dignity. ‘He struck first.’
Garrett found his voice, which was broken. ‘He’s a liar-a hoax-he provoked-’
‘I don’t give a damn what happened, or who’s right, or who’s wrong,’ said Craig furiously. ‘For Chrissakes, you’re two adults-holies-the great Nobel winners-behaving down here like two saloon brawlers. Now, cut it out and forget it. What if this got out? What if someone found out?’
He turned to Farelli. ‘You go first. Better comb your hair and straighten your jacket. The lapel’s ripped. I think you can disguise it before you get inside.’
Craig turned back to Garrett. ‘I’ll try to put you in shape. Here’s my handkerchief. Wipe the blood. It’s only a lip cut. I’ll clean you up and sneak you into the bathroom.’
‘Benissimo,’ Farelli said to Craig. Then he studied Garrett with contempt. ‘Arrivederci, fratello mio.’ He started to go.
Garrett glared past Craig, making a ball of his fist and shaking it at the Italian. ‘I’m not through with you, you quack. I’ll fix you yet-I’ll fix you-you wait and see.’
And then Garrett turned back into the dark of the garden, crying and vomiting at once, not out of physical pain, but out of humiliation and loss and gross injustice and inadequacy, all in one, and all in his bursting heart.